


Ready to Rock if You Wanna Roll

by hobotang



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Blood, Blowjobs, Fighting, Fluff, M/M, Rated Explicit for later chapters, because Stiles totally has an oral fixation, face fucking, i guess, the obligatory Stiles-has-on-oral-fixation trope, this is basically the opposite of a meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-22 08:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10693251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobotang/pseuds/hobotang
Summary: Chris gets solicited by a stranger at a bar, but not in the way you'd expect.WARNING: this is officially the stupidest premise for a fic I have ever written, it's entirely ridiculous and unlikely. But it's cute, so fuck it, have some Chris/Stiles, because I'm on a mission to pair Stiles with practically everyone ever.Title is from "Promoter (Of Earthbound Causes)" by Clutch.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Chris has been sitting at the bar for approximately twenty minutes, and already he feels old. He’s at least ten years older than everyone in here, which is depressing enough, but he _feels_ old, too. The music is too loud, the beat too pervasive, and the smell of sweat and sour alcohol is too strong. He scans the dance floor every so often, to see if there’s anyone remotely close to his age around, but it’s all just twenty-somethings grinding and enjoying their youth.

Christ, he feels like a grouch.

He’s only here because he’d been meant to meet up with a friend from work, but Andrew had had to cancel, citing something about a leaking tap and a hysterical mother. Chris had already been at the bar when he’d read the message, and figured he may as well stick around a bit, have a drink. But, evidently, drinking alone in a crowded bar wasn’t nearly as fun as it had been when he was younger. He’s made up his mind to have one last drink and go, and settling his bill with the bartender when he’s tapped on the shoulder.

He spins around, squaring his shoulders unconsciously, and comes face-to-face with a kid he’s noticed a few times in the throng of dancers. He’d noticed the guy because of his dancing – by all accounts, it’s terrible, and should make anyone looking at him shudder from lack of rhythm. But it’s _not_ terrible, because the kid’s body moves like liquid gold, smooth and sinuous and intoxicating. His body rolls from shoulders to hips effortlessly, so fluid it made Chris’ mouth water. And now he’s standing in front of him, the line of his hair dark with sweat, his face set in what he apparently thinks is a threatening sneer. Chris tries not to laugh.

“Can I help you?”

“I need you to fight me.”

Okay, Chris hadn’t expected that. His face must show it, because the kid carries on hastily.

“I’m on the lacrosse team at college, and there’s this weird hazing thing where new team members have to get in a fight, to ‘prove’ themselves to the team.”

He actually does the fake speech marks in the air with his fingers, this kid is ridiculous. Chris scoffs, both at the speech marks and at the stupid hazing ritual.

 “I know it’s weird!” the kid rushes out, “but my college is weird, and if I don’t leave here with at least a shiner I’ll be the joke of the team. Please.”

The bar is up on a bit of a raised platform, and Chris is sitting on a high stool, so the kid has to look up at him to say this. And Chris will forever blame it on his two-month dry spell that this baby-faced, lithe-bodied college student craning his neck to beg for something from Chris _definitely_ gives him a semi.

“Uh, I…okay? Why are you picking me?”

“Because you’re the biggest guy at the bar, but you’re also here alone, so you won’t try and impress anyone by, like, killing me. Hopefully.”

Chris rolls his eyes, but he can’t fault the kid’s logic – Chris has found himself in a few fights before, purely because drunk guys are always show-offs, and Chris is big, but not _too_ big. He’s a perfect target for guys trying to impress people.

“All you need to do,” the kid explains, still looking up at Chris through his eyelashes, “is come outside, let me get a few punches in, then smack me down and make it look convincing.”

“So your weird college doesn’t need you to actually _win_ the fight?”

The guy scoffs, throwing his whole head back when he rolls his eyes. Chris is amazed he doesn’t break his own neck.

“Come on, dude. Nobody in their right mind would believe that _this_ ,” he gestures flailingly to himself, “could beat _that_ ,” holding his hands out to Chris. Chris raises his eyebrows, rubs a hand through his beard – he can’t disagree with that.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” the kid says easily. Even though he’s undoubtedly got a baby face, Chris doesn’t think he’s lying, and as much as he doesn’t really want to punch anyone, he doesn’t think punching a twenty-one-year-old is necessarily a crime. Just stupid. He sighs, kind of dumbstruck that this is how his night’s gone.

“Okay. Fine.”

The kid practically dislocates his shoulder with how hard he punches the air, his face a mask of relief. Chris laughs again – he never thought he’d see someone jump for joy about getting punched in the face, but he’d heard of stranger things.

“Awesome, great, okay, come outside with me then. And, uh, pretend like you hate me.”

“Done and done,” Chris replies, grinning jovially at the kid’s look of horror. “Should I play things up a bit?”

The kid nods, so Chris reaches up and twists his hand in the soft material of his hoodie, at the nape of his neck. The punched-out gasp the kid lets out is…well, it’s doing things for Chris’ adrenaline. He takes a second to wonder if he’s really about to do this – then decides that he _is_ , so he may as well sell it. He practically hauls the kid to the front of the club, thankful that the bouncer was busy with incoming customers and didn’t notice then leaving.

They’re a couple of steps away from the entrance when he hears the door thump open again, and the sound of drunk boys cheering. He looks over his shoulder and sees a group of college-aged boys following him and this kid, looking straight at them.

“Your friends?”

The kid nods, still sounding breathless.

Chris keeps his hand in the kid’s hoodie, only half-dragging him, but trying to make it look convincing enough. When they’re a bit further from the club, he drops his hand from the hoodie and straightens up, squaring his shoulders. As he does so, he whispers, “Now would be a good time to hit me in the stomach.”

To his credit, this wiry-looking kid has some actual muscle. His fist comes into Chris’ stomach hard, getting him right under the ribs and knocking the wind out of him for a second. It actually surprises him, and he takes one again, to the kidney this time, before pulling himself up again and cracking his neck. The kid is almost _smiling_ at him, it’s fucking crazy, but he hears the group of guys cheering and remembers he has to be convincing. So he dodges the kid’s next punch, aimed at his kidney again, pulls his left fist back and aims for the kid’s cheek. Which would have been fine, if the kid hadn’t turned at exactly the wrong moment and taken a left hook right to the nose.

It's not as bad as it could have been – Chris is right-handed, so left hooks aren’t his best hit, and he’d kept his strength to a solid 60% for the kid’s sake. Even so, the blood starts almost immediately, not quite a torrent but a solid gush, and the kid goes down like a sack of potatoes. Chris feels _so_ bad, but the guy’s college buddies have already crowded in to pick him up, and one of them is even trying to _high-five_ Chris. He accepts it dumbly, trying to see through the throng of people if the kid is okay. He knows he didn’t break his nose – he’s done that before, knows how it feels under his fist, knows how it sounds – but a hit to the nose is never easy to shake off.

Eventually the kid stands up, holding a hand that’s already covered in blood over his nose. His eyes are streaming, and Chris feels bad because he knows the guy’s friends are going to make fun of him for crying, even though everyone knows that getting hit in the nose makes your eyes water. That’s just the way college dudes are, and these guys are clearly no different.

Chris tries to get close to the guy, to check he’s okay, but he gets bombarded with more of the college kids trying to high-five him, which is honestly just insane. Chris has no clue what’s happening with these guys, no clue how his night ended up like this. This time, he ignores all the outstretched hands, fending them off to get to the kid’s side.

“Well that fucking hurt.”

His voice is muffled under his hand, and from his no doubt swollen nose, but Chris can hear the smile behind it. He pulls the kid’s hand away from his face, checking the damage. Not too bad, more blood than anything, but he’s going to have a swollen nose for a bit, and a graze on his cheek from when he went down and hit the pavement. He says as much, watching in fascination as the kid grins and whoops out a cheer. It’s weird, but Chris supposes that having visible injuries was kind of the point of this whole…whatever it was.

“By the way,” the kid says, tipping his head back against the blood, “I’m Stiles. Nice to meet you.”

He holds out his hand – the one not covered in blood, thankfully – and Chris takes it.

“Don’t tilt your head back,” he says in lieu of an introduction. The kid – _Stiles_ – furrows his brow, and Chris clears his throat, embarrassed at his father instinct. “It just makes the blood go down your throat, meaning at worst, you could choke on it. At best, it’s just fucking gross to swallow your own nose blood. Tilt your head forward and let it bleed out, that’s the best thing for it.”

Stiles does what he says, craning his neck awkwardly in an attempt to keep the blood off his clothes.

“And I’m Chris, by the way.”

Stiles smiles, nodding, and gestures to his college friends, who are ‘sneakily’ taking photos of Stiles’ beat-up face. “I should probably get going, before I drip enough blood on the pavement to make it look like a crime scene. Thanks for, uh…well, for beating me up. Much appreciated.”

Chris laughs out loud, nodding and shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me,” he smirks, feeling his heartbeat kick at the way Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him. He turns to leave, trying to keep his back straight – he may have done more damage to Stiles, but the kid still hit him hard in the kidney, that shit _hurt_ – when someone taps at his shoulder. For the second time tonight, he turns to see Stiles.

“Um. Okay, this might be a really weird thing to ask, seeing as I literally just solicited you to beat me up, but, uh…well, okay, here goes.”

And then he just stops talking, and Chris is seriously confused. “Is…is there anything you wanted? Or was that all you had to say?”

Stiles shoves his shoulder jovially, rolling his eyes. “ _No_ , that was not all I had to say,” he says nasally. “I _wanted_ to ask…um, if I can give you my number?”

His voice gets fainter and fainter as he speaks, so much so that the last part is a whisper, but Chris heard it perfectly clearly. And his heart soars again, because honestly, now that he knows this kid is weird and witty as well as having an incredible body, well. He sure as hell wouldn’t say no to seeing him again.

He nods, not quite sure what to say that isn’t, “Jesus Christ yes” (which feels a bit much), and hands over his unlocked phone. Stiles types gingerly with one finger, trying not to get blood all over the screen, and hands Chris his phone back.

“Uh,” he mutters, suddenly very interested in his shoes, “yeah. Give me a call, if you want, or text me, or whatever. And, uh, have a good night!”

He practically runs away before Chris can say anything, and is enveloped in the group of boys as they march in the opposite direction. Still not quite sure if he hadn’t fallen asleep at the bar and this whole scenario wasn’t just a drunken dream, Chris heads home, phone still clutched in his hand.

He doesn’t check it until he’s home, having dumped his coat over the back of the sofa and collapsed into his bed. He unlocks it, Stiles’ contact info greeting him straight away. Stiles had put himself in as “Charming Stranger with Broken Nose,” followed by a few fire emojis, and then his number. Chris chuckles, changing the same to Stiles, because he’ll never remember it otherwise. He keeps the fire emojis, because hey – if the shoe fits. He shoots off a quick text saying, “not broken, just rearranged,” hitting send before he can talk himself out of it. He plugs his phone in and drops it on his bedside table, trying not to let his stomach sink with immediate regret. What if Stiles was actually in a lot of pain? Shit, he’s just made fun of someone after _punching them in the face_ , Jesus –

His phone vibrates loudly next to him, dragging him out of his spiral, and Chris punches the table in his haste to grab it. Shaking his hand out, he checks the message from Stiles – “if i end up needing cosmetic surgery youre paying for it, Christopher.”

Chris grins to himself, instantly feeling better. No hard feelings, then. Perhaps good feelings? He’s pretty sure being full-named is a good sign, right? Shit, Chris had gone out to get laid tonight, and had come home not only distinctly _un_ laid, but with bruised knuckles and a twenty-one-year-old’s number. What the fuck?

He resists the urge to flirt shamelessly – he’s too tired, and falling asleep in the middle of flirting wasn’t a very good first (well, second) impression – so he replies with, “let me know how bad it is in the morning, just clean the blood up first x,” and checks his other messages quickly. All from work, except one from his dentist reminding him of his appointment on Tuesday. His phone buzzes again, and he opens the message immediately. “will do, can’t promise it’ll look any prettier without the blood tho x.”

Chris smiles, firmly telling himself that texting back about how pretty Stiles already is _is_ flirting, and is a recipe for disaster. He puts his phone back on his bedside table, assuring himself there’ll be plenty more opportunities to tell Stiles he’s pretty, and rolls over to sleep.

If he spends another half an hour wide awake, imagining all the things he could do with Stiles’ lithe body and smart mouth in the bed with him, well. Nobody needs to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The much-anticipated sex (which is just mutual blowjobs, sorry). This chapter is a lot longer than I intended it to be, but hey, we can't all be perfect.

Stiles wakes up with what can only be described as the most intense headache of his life. His eyes feel like they’re about to fall out, his brain feels like it’s made of metal spikes, every movement tightens a fucking vice around his skull. It’s bad.

It’s even worse when he tries to sit up, and sees his hands covered in blood.

He remembers why, but only after jerking in surprise and sending white spots swimming across his eyes. Which he’s pretty sure is never a good sign, but whatever.

Head throbbing worse than ever, he checks out the damage in the mirror in the corner of the room. His nose is slightly swollen and sporting a nice red-and-purple bruise across the bridge, but his cheek is worse. He must have hit the pavement hard when he went down, because there’s a graze that goes along his whole cheekbone, and it’s swollen and bruised underneath the scab.

And he kind of hates himself for thinking this way, but honestly? It looks kind of bad ass.

He washes the blood off his face and hands, then goes back to bed to grab his phone, opening the curtains on the way. He sits up in the bed, facing the window, and tries to take a photo of his injuries. It’s more nerve-wracking than it should be – he’s not going to look good no matter what he does, obviously, but still. He wants to look _vaguely_ good, because he remembers the man from the night before looking _mouth-wateringly_ good, so, quid pro quo and all that. Plus, he doesn’t want the guy – Chris, his phone helpfully reminds him – getting his picture and immediately thinking, “God, I must have been way too drunk to accept this kid’s number.”

Basically, Stiles is having a mini photo shoot on his bed, in his pyjamas, on a Saturday morning, with a swollen face. How did this become his life?

His roommate, Danny, stirs in the bed across the room, whining at Stiles to close the curtains. Stiles ignores him, still trying desperately to find the right angle that makes him look beat-up but also sexy. Which, now that he thinks about it…yeah, it seems fairly impossible.

Danny gets up after about five minutes of Stiles umming and ahhing, demanding Stiles’ phone by standing in front of him in all his shirtless glory, with his hand out. Stiles hands it over, after admiring the view for a second (he’s young and into guys, and Danny is practically a perfect specimen, okay? Sue him). Danny considers Stiles for a moment, then says, “Take your shirt off.”

And Stiles has seen enough porn to know that this is how a scene starts, so he just kind of…stares? And Danny rolls his eyes, because he knows exactly where Stiles’ mind has just gone (he shares a _room_ with the kid, he knows how much porn he watches).

“You’re sending this to a guy, right?”

At Stiles’ nod, he continues, “Well, if you’re trying to get him interested, then bare skin is the way to do it. So take your shirt off.”

Stiles shrugs – can’t fault that logic – and pulls his pyjama shirt off. He used to be self-conscious about being shirtless in front of Danny, but after living with each other for two years, Stiles has come to understand that 1. Danny is literally the least judgemental person out there, and 2. Danny doesn’t actually hate Stiles’ body and surreptitiously checks him out every time he’s shirtless, which is a lovely little ego boost. Which is one of the many reasons why Stiles loves living with Danny.

“I still can’t believe you chose the fucking Hulk, man,” Danny mutters as he’s angling the camera this way and that. “You could literally have told a girl to slap you and it would’ve counted.”

Stiles shrugs, making a vague noise. He knows that.

Danny looks up from the phone, then grins and shakes his head.

“You just saw a hot piece of ass and wanted a conversation starter, huh?” He laughs out loud when Stiles blushes. “Oh Stiles, you are ridiculous. Hope he’s worth it.”

He hands back the phone with about twenty pictures on it, then announces he’s going to shower. For a chemistry major with no interest in art whatsoever, Danny is a damn good photographer. Stiles picks one that makes his injuries look particularly bad (and his collarbones look particularly good) and sends it to Chris with the message, “everyone in the dorm thinks i fought the Hulk last night, can’t say i blame them.”

He drops his phone on the bed and picks up his laptop, pulling Netflix up. He’s trying to pick a film to watch, unable to decide between The Nice Guys and Zombieland (even though he’s seen Zombieland at least five times – Emma Stone AND Woody Harrelson, okay?) when his phone buzzes next to him. He jumps, nearly flinging his laptop across the room, and checks the message with shaking hands – from the adrenaline, not because he’s nervous. Obviously not.

“we both know if I was actually the hulk you’d still be on the sidewalk, drama queen”

Stiles scoffs, though he can’t really argue.

“we both also know,” he types out with still-shaking fingers, “that you were holding back, so don’t think your cover is safe just yet”

He uses the moment of silence to check his Instagram, noticing that Danny’s uploaded a photo of him in bed, with the caption, “Someone took a pounding last night, and not in the fun way,” and a wink face at the end. Stiles likes it, and it about to comment something snarky when Chris texts him back.

“of course I was holding back, it’d be a crime to mess up a face like yours x”

Stiles’ heart skips a beat, then another. He genuinely thinks he’s about to have a heart attack, because holy shit, that was the cutest thing anyone’s ever said to him. _Ever._ He’s about to say as much to Chris, when he gets another text:

“any chance I could take you out to dinner to say sorry?”

Stiles’ heart straight-up stops – he’s seriously going to have to get himself checked out, his heart’s doing worse than his father’s right now – before he immediately types out, “yes oh my god absolutely yes,” and hits send.

He regrets it immediately, because hello, ever heard of the phrase _coming on too strong_? But he figures it can’t hurt too much to be honest about his feelings. Even if his feelings are barely intelligible.

“can I call you?”

Stiles freaks out a tiny bit at that, even starts fixing his hair before he remembers how phone calls work. He calls Chris instead of texting back, feeling a bit reassured in the fact that the phone only rings once before it’s picked up.

“That bruise looks awful,” Chris says, in lieu of a greeting. His voice is gravelly, gruff with sleep, and Stiles thinks he might melt.

“Well, who can we blame for that?” Stiles snarks back.

“We’ve already discussed this, Stiles,” – Stiles will never admit how much hearing Chris say his name affects him – “it’s absolutely your fault. But, being the kind-hearted soul I am, I really do want to make it up to you.”

Stiles resists the urge to make the easy reply, which, if he’s honest, he’s quite proud of himself for doing. Especially with the fact that Chris’ voice sounds like pure sin.

“Dinner sounds good. But I refuse to go anywhere fancy when I look like I’ve just stumbled out of Fight Club.”

Chris chuckles on the other end. “Fair enough, I’ll let you pick a place. As long as it has actual seats.”

“Shake Shack?”

“Easy. Do you want me to pick you up?”

Stiles’ Jeep is in the shop – when is it _not_ , these days? – so he agrees, reciting his address. They settle on 7 o’clock, and Stiles rings off with an embarrassingly wistful sigh. He’s still in bed, dicking around on his phone, when Danny comes back in. He takes one look at Stiles, and rolls his eyes.

“I take it things went well, then?”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs dreamily, “we’re going to dinner tonight.”

“Does that mean you’ll be away tonight? ‘Cause Nick may or may not be spending the night…”

Stiles glares at him, then scoffs when Danny flashes his dimples. Not fair – Danny knows his dimples are irresistible.

“Were you planning on telling me? Or was I just gonna walk in to find you two fucking on the floor, like last time?”

“I was _going_ to tell you,” Danny mutters, “but now that you’re going out anyway –”

“For dinner! It’s barely even a first date, Danny, I don’t think we can _assume_ that sex is happening.”

Danny raises an eyebrow, deliberately raking his eyes over Stiles’ body.

“The only way he doesn’t try and fuck you in the _restaurant_ , Stiles, is if he’s straight as an arrow.”

Stiles blushes a bit, trying to bite back a smile. Danny compliments him a lot, in a very matter-of-fact way, but Stiles still isn’t used to it.

“You _do_ want to fuck him, right?”

“Just saying ‘yes’ would be the understatement of the century,” Stiles replies. Danny smiles and nods definitively, then goes to his wardrobe and starts getting dressed.

“Good. So you’ll be out tonight.”

* * *

 

It gets to 6:50, and Stiles is panicking. He’s tried on practically every outfit in his wardrobe, and none of them seem to do what he wants them to. He doesn’t actually know _what_ he wants them to do, he just knows they’re _not_ doing it.

“Stiles,” Danny mutters from his bed, where he’s sitting cross-legged with his computer on his lap, “you’re going to dinner, not getting married. Calm the fuck down.”

“But you haven’t _seen_ this guy, Danny. It’s actually inhuman how attractive he is, I need to at least _try_ to measure up.”

“Is our mirror somehow malfunctioning, then?” Danny’s snark is palpable. “Stiles, you look fucking great in anything you wear. All you need is a clean shirt, some skinny jeans, and some shoes that aren’t your shitty gym shoes, and you’re golden.”

Despite being touched at Danny’s compliment, Stiles is still freaking out. Danny must sense his genuine distress, because he gets up and pads over to Stiles, picking up a dark grey Henley on his way. He thrusts it at him, nodding in approval of his black jeans. When Stiles has the shirt on, Danny claps his hands and smiles.

“Beautiful. You’re a vision, dear.”

Stiles has to admit, he looks great.

“Now fix your hair and get the fuck out of here, Nick will be here in a second and I can’t have him seeing you all dressed up.”

Stiles laughs, patting Danny’s shoulder in thanks. He grabs his jacket and the essentials, and checks his phone as he’s closing the door behind him. He’s got a text from Chris saying, “outside by the bike rack x,” so he hastens his step.

He spots Chris’ car immediately and hustles over, thankful he’d grabbed his jacket because it’s pretty chilly for April, especially after dark. Chris jumps out of the driver’s side and opens the passenger door, which Stiles finds ridiculously endearing.

Their greeting is fairly short, since Stiles is nervous as hell and Chris is apparently a man of few words. They sit in silence for a couple of seconds, the radio humming quietly, until Chris says, “Your face looks terrible.”

Which makes Stiles laugh, and then everything is easy again.

They’re chatting happily when they get to the nearest Shake Shack, which is, unsurprisingly, fairly empty. Chris steers them towards a booth next to the window, and they sit across from one other. Stiles’ heart is thumping a little, now that he’s looking straight at Chris again – how the fuck did he actually end up having dinner with this guy? He’s a fucking _god_ , honestly, his face is so unbelievably attract – _shit_ , Stiles is staring, fuck, he needs to get it together.

Their waitress stops by the table and introduces herself, and Stiles is eternally grateful. _Thank you, Jen_ , he thinks. She gives Stiles a bit of a worried look, reminding him of the heavy bruising, and he just laughs. “Got into a fight last night at the bar, nothing serious.” She looks relieved, even laughs along with him. They order drinks to start with – a soda for Chris, a mint cookies and cream milkshake for Stiles. Because he’s a child.

“What?” Stiles asks at Chris’ amused look, “We’re at a _Shake_ Shack, don’t think I’m not taking full advantage of that fact.”

Chris’ head drops towards his chest when he laughs,and Stiles can’t help watching the way his shoulders shake, the way his hair has little salt-and-pepper speckles through it. It looks really soft… Chris looks up again, catching Stiles’ eye, and Stiles blushes. They haven’t even got their drinks yet, and he’s already thinking way too far ahead.

“You do realise that you’re gonna end up having a milkshake with a burger, right?”

Stiles shrugs, because let’s be real, he’s done that before.

“Well, if it’s free, I’m making the most of it.”

“What makes you think it’s free?” Chris teases, leaning his forearms on the table. Stiles resists the urge to reach out and touch.

“I believe you said that you were, what was the phrase? _Making it up to me_ ,” he raises an eyebrow at that, playing up the innuendo. “Not really making it up to me if you make me pay for my own dinner, is it?”

Chris chuckles, nodding. “Fair point, fair point. If you want to give yourself a stomach ache, that’s your prerogative.”

“Thank you,” Stiles quips, just as their drinks come. The waitress takes their food orders, then he digs in, attacking the straw and drinking about a third of the milkshake in one go. He sighs happily and leans back in his seat, sees Chris looking at him with his mouth half open, and cocks an eyebrow at him. Chris shakes his head and goes back to his drink.

They make easy conversation, chatting about Chris’ job and Stiles’ study, about how their days were, about where they grew up. It turns out Chris grew up in New York, pretty near where Stiles’ mum lived as a kid.

They both dig in pretty quickly when their food comes, and the talk is put on hold for a bit. Stiles groans at the first bite of his burger, closing his eyes and throwing his head back, saying a silent prayer of thanks.

He completely misses the way Chris’ eyes drift to his neck, the way his breathing gets a little more laboured every time Stiles makes an appreciative noise.

It keeps happening, too. Stiles doesn’t even think about it when he fiddles with the straw of his milkshake, twirling it in the long fingers of one hand while he stuffs his mouth with fries with the other. He doesn’t think about it when he finishes his burger and sucks his fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue over each one individually to get rid of the grease and sauce. It isn’t until he has to run his tongue down his wrist to catch an errant drip of grease that Chris speaks up.

“Stiles.”

Stiles freezes at the husk in Chris’ voice, tongue still on his skin, and locks eyes with the man across the table. Chris’ hands are curled into fists on the table, his knuckles stark white. He’s staring at Stiles’ tongue on his wrist, his mouth slightly open, and now that Stiles is paying attention he can hear Chris breathing heavily.

“Uh.”

Stiles’ voice cracks a bit, and he hastily pulls his tongue back into his mouth, wiping the grease off his skin with his napkin instead. “Sorry,” he mumbles, feeling his face heat up, and he’s seriously considering flinging himself out the window when Chris says, “Don’t be.”

They both stop when he says that, Chris looking just as surprised as Stiles.

“You, uh, missed a spot,” Chris points out, gesturing at Stiles’ chin. Stiles swipes at it, catching a drip of sauce on his finger. The look on Chris’ face gives him far more courage than usual, and he raises an eyebrow at the older man before sucking the finger into his mouth.

The sound Chris makes, and the way is fists clench even tighter, is encouraging. Stiles flicks his tongue out to kitten-lick the tip of his finger, and Chris makes a noise like a wounded animal.

They leave quickly, Chris practically throwing his money on the table in his haste.

* * *

 

When the doors close behind them in the elevator of Chris’ apartment building, Chris puts his hand on the small of Stiles’ back. On Stiles’ already supercharged nerves, it feels burning hot, and makes his body surge with goosebumps. He leans back into in, leans into Chris’ side, humming happily. He can’t believe Danny was so _right_.

At the door to his apartment, Chris turns to Stiles and says quietly, “You don’t have to, you know that, right?” At Stiles’ bewildered face, he rushes on, “I mean, just because I bought you dinner doesn’t mean you owe me anything, or I _expect_ anything, or –”

Stiles cuts him off, shaking his head. “Chris, why would I have agreed to come out with you if I didn’t want to, you know, _go home_ with you? You already got to hit me in the face, I don’t think I owe you anything more.”

Chris chuckles, and it makes Stiles feel equally smug and nervous that Chris’ hands shake slightly as he’s unlocking his door.

He finally gets it open, flicking the light on as they step in, and Stiles locks the door behind them. As soon as he turns around, Chris’ hands are on his hips, crowding him against the door. Stiles goes easily, arms coming up to Chris’ shoulders and running through his hair – just as soft as he’d imagined. He pulls the older man towards him, making eye contact for a second to check they’re okay before he leans in and kisses him.

It’s soft to start with, a tender brush of lips that sets Stiles’ whole body ablaze. There’s not much of a height difference, so when Chris leans into the kiss, the way his body presses against Stiles’ is a perfect match. Things get heavy from there – the kiss gets deeper, messier, teeth get involved before tongues do. Chris’ crotch presses heavy against Stiles’ and the younger man can’t help but thrust his hips up, moaning happily when Chris’ hands move from his waist to his arse and _pull_.

“Stiles,” Chris mutters, licking at the string of saliva that clings to their lips, “fuck, Stiles, I want you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, nodding, “yeah, I want you to – want you to fuck me, Chris, I’ve wanted you like this since I saw you at the bar.”

He’s breathing so hard his chest touches Chris’ whenever he breathes in, but it’s okay because Chris is breathing hard too, and then it’s _really_ okay because Chris leans in and starts kissing Stiles’ neck, his breath hot and damp against Stiles’ skin.

Stiles moans, running his hands up Chris’ back and bunching his shirt up with it, muttering for him to take it off. Chris does, and Stiles whips his off, too, then Chris is attacking his chest, his mouth on Stiles’ collarbones and his fingers tracing Stiles’ nipples. When he bites down Stiles can’t help but moan, loud and embarrassing, and he hopes Chris’ apartment has thick walls. The man in question doesn’t seem to mind, though, and he takes his hands off Stiles’ chest to grab the backs of his thighs, lifting him off the ground.

Stiles yelps, his arms instinctively clutching Chris’ shoulders, and he locks his ankles behind the man’s back. Chris smiles, kissing at Stiles’ neck again as he walks them through the kitchen-slash-living-area and into his room. It’s not a short walk, and Stiles is not-so-quietly marvelling at how fucking _strong_ Chris is, and then they’re in the bedroom and Chris lowers him onto the bed.

He dives on him again immediately, arms on either side of Stiles’ body so he can lean down and kiss him senseless. Stiles edges back on the mattress so Chris can climb on too and nestle between Stiles’ legs, pressing their bodies together again. Stiles can’t help but buck his hips up against Chris’, and both of them moan at the contact. He’s rock hard, cock straining in his skinny jeans, and he almost cries in frustration when Chris’ warm hands cups him through the denim.

“Chris,” he grits out, “fuck, just get them off.”

Chris obliges, sitting back on his ankles so he can undo the jeans and help Stiles shimmy out of them. He pulls Stiles’ underwear down too, then sits back and stares, but when Stiles tries to cover himself Chris just bats his hands away. “Don’t,” Chris says quietly, almost reverently. “I’m just – admiring.”

Stiles doesn’t even have time to blush before Chris’ hand is on his dick and he’s shuffling to lean down, his mouth right next to Stiles’ crotch. He looks up again, though, and asks, “Are you, y’know, clean? ‘Cause I’ve got condoms if we need…”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good, haven’t been with anyone since last time I got checked, so you’re all clear.”

Chris doesn’t waste any time after that, circling his tongue around the head of Stiles’ cock and moaning at the taste, and Stiles thinks he might die. He _actually_ might die, how the fuck did he end up here, with the most gorgeous guy he’s ever seen moaning over his cock?

When Chris’ swallows him down, suddenly it doesn’t matter how he got here.

His mouth is so _good_ , so hot and tight and Stiles is _keening_ at the feel of it. He fists a hand in his own hair, then fists a hand in Chris’ hair, then pulls it back because wow, _rude_. But Chris pulls off his dick and says, “You can pull my hair, I like it,” and _how the fuck did he get here?!_

Stiles runs his fingers through Chris’ hair again, tightening his grip as Chris takes him further and further down, gripping hard when he feels himself hit the back of his throat. It’s so fucking hot, especially the way Chris moans around him, like he’s having the time of his life sucking Stiles off, and suddenly Stiles’ body seems to remember that he is, in fact, twenty-one, and he isn’t designed to withstand hotter-that-the-sun, totally daddy material blowjobs for any reasonable period of time.

He tries to pull Chris off, warning him, but Chris digs his nails into Stiles’ hip and looks up at him through his lashes, the look somehow managing to say, “do your worst” even with a mouthful of cock. Stiles can’t help it, he throws his head back and comes hard, harder than he has in months. He doesn’t realise how tight his grip on Chris’ hair is, until he comes down from his orgasm, unclenching his fingers and smoothing his hair down instead.

“Sorry,” he says, running his fingers through Chris’ hair in apology, “got carried away.”

Chris shrugs, wiping at the corner of his mouth, and replies, “Not complaining. I told you I like it.”

He’s about to lick up the last bits of Stiles’ come that missed his mouth, then he notices Stiles staring. He looks at his thumb, then at Stiles’ face, and holds his hand out in offering. Stiles leans up eagerly, making eye contact as he sucks Chris’ thumb into his mouth and runs his tongue over it, making a pleased noise at the back of his throat. Chris groans in response, pulling his thumb out and running it over Stiles’ bottom lip, leaving it glistening.

“Fuck, your mouth is obscene.”

Stiles bites his lip, smiling at him through hooded eyes, and replies, “Wanna try it out?”

Chris’ hands are on his belt before he can even think about it and he sits up on his knees, pulling his belt off just as Stiles crawls towards him, arse in the air. He undoes Chris’ jeans the rest of the way, just pulling his dick out and licking a wide stripe up the underside. Chris’ breath catches as Stiles sucks the head into his mouth, lips tight around it, one of his hands tugging gently at his balls. He works slowly, teasingly, making Chris moan in frustration.

It’s not until Chris starts thrusting his hips feebly, unconsciously chasing Stiles’ mouth, that Stiles finally gives in. He leans his forearms on the mattress, bum high in the air, and takes Chris’ cock in his mouth fully, letting his jaw hang wide to accommodate. Chris moans his name, running a hand along his throat, and Stiles whines around him. He leans forward even more, taking him in further, practically gagging himself but fuck, if he isn’t more turned on that he’s ever been. He wants Chris to fuck his mouth, take him apart all over again, but he knows he’s too nice to do it by himself, so Stiles pulls off for a second.

“Fuck my mouth.”

Chris shakes his head, more in disbelief than disagreement, but Stiles says it again just to be sure. “Please, fuck my mouth, I can take it, I _want_ to take it.”

When he swallows Chris down again he feels a tentative hand at the back of his head, so he moans his encouragement. Chris starts slow, moving gently so Stiles can get used to it. When Stiles moans again he speeds up, gripping Stiles’ hair for better leverage. He groans Stiles’ name again, closing his eyes in ecstasy, and Stiles is right there with him. He’s always loved being used like this, being _taken_ like this, and it’s been so fucking long since he’s had anyone fuck his face properly.

Chris’ cock is leaking a steady stream of precum now, and Stiles knows he’s about to come even before Chris tells him, tightening his fist in his hair in warning. Stiles leans in further, making sure he doesn’t miss a drop, and he can feel Chris’ cock pulsing on his tongue as he comes hard in his mouth. Stiles keeps sucking, only letting go when Chris pulls him off, then he swallows it happily.

He’s barely even surprised when Chris pulls him in for a filthy kiss, licking around his mouth to get a taste.

The kiss gets gentler eventually, and Stiles sighs happily, more satisfied than he’s been for a long time. When they break apart, Chris’ expression is loose with contentment, his lips curled up in an easy smile. Stiles pecks his lips again, just because he can, then lies back on the bed.

“You don’t mind me spending the night, do you?”

Chris rolls his eyes, pulling his jeans off the rest of the way and climbing under the covers next to him.

“Seeing as I’m your ride home anyway, and there’s no way in hell I’m putting clothes on again tonight, I see no other option.”

Stiles laughs openly, kissing him one more time before turning around so Chris can curl around his back, arm slung lazily over his belly. He sighs contentedly.

“You know,” he says, “none of this would ever have happened if I hadn’t gone along with that dumbass hazing ritual.”

Chris sighs against his neck.

“Not true,” he mutters quietly. “I had my eye on you from the moment I walked in.”

Stiles laughs again, sighs, “I knew I was irresistible,” and snuggles back into his warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up if you could totally tell I had no idea how to end this! Sorry there wasn't more sex, but I'm tired and sad and couldn't be bothered. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!


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